


élégie in c minor, op 24

by rostropovich



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst without a happy ending, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 08:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15215195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: peter attends george's funeral.





	élégie in c minor, op 24

**Author's Note:**

> 4 your listening pleasure ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvMtTVNEVeA )

the sky is still and bleary, brush strokes of deep grey watering what once was blue and bright. a lone fork of lightning flashes above the stoic waves below dorset is the strike that bruises the clouds and they darken, swell with a wintry blood. the great, looming cypresses lining the winding cobblestone paths of weymouth memorial are still from the great gnarled trunks to the pointed tips poking the charcoal sky.

the cemetery was crowded, but it’s nothing new. it _is_ war time.

the dawsons make it to the end of the service, hanging to the back of the gloomy congregation crowded around a freshly dug grave plot. peter can see the white lined casket from here, resting on a stand behind the priest. the lid is propped open. peter wonders if it is better to see his friend lying dead in a casket or if it is better to just never see him at all. his mother says that people that have passed should always be remembered full of life. all peter can seem to remember about george is the sound of his dying whimpers and the look of blank eyes and the impartial stares of soldiers that have seen hundreds of corpses. peter’s father squeezes his shoulder.

the priest is in the middle of reading a psalm from the bible when a shrill cry rings out, echoing through the cemetery, rebounding off the headstones to the great trunks of the cypress trees and weeping willows.

“ _you sons of bitches_!” a murmur of surprise ripples through the extensive mills family. the black sea parts and a woman with dark, curly hair and eyes shrouded by a veil of grief storms to where peter and his family stand. bodies turn and all eyes settle on the light - haired dawsons. “you sons of bitches,” ivy mills says again, this time no louder than a whisper. her hand raises in a flash of fury and she strikes peter’s father across the face. peter grabs his mother, who is moving to retaliate. “you killed him.” her fury gives way to the despair beneath. “you killed my baby, my georgie.”

peter can’t help the tears that escape his eyes.

“edgar,” says peter’s mother, resting her gloved hand on his shoulder. he turns. meanwhile, the priest tries to rein the ceremony back. “we should go.”

“rachel,” he says quietly, firmly. peter doesn’t catch it, but his father’s gaze drifts to him before returning to his wife. she takes the hint and her hand drops to hold his while her other arm rests around peter’s side.

peter doesn’t listen much to what the priest says. he’s no stranger to funerals; in his seventeen long years of life, he has been to five. everything said is all the same. his glance drifts to the weeping willow just a few metres to the north with a wrought iron bench beneath it, a metal engraving probably about the dead socialite that paid for it or a dead socialite that is buried in the cemetery or a dead socialite with nothing special about them. through the tears that have been residually lining his eyes, he can see a tall figure hunched over there, dripping hair shrouding his face, body shivering long after he has warmed up. _will he be okay? the boy?_ peter wipes his eyes and there’s no one there.

the funeral of his brother, isaac, had been a quiet affair, much quieter than this. the very reserved dawsons had allowed naught but a handful to come, though food and good wishes were sent to them from the members of the small town for weeks. his remains, for all that was sent back were merely remains, are buried not far from george’s plot, marked only by a modest headstone with his name and the words “ gaudeamus, transeamus, pares” – _let us be glad, let us pass on, hand in hand_. the death of brother didn’t sink in with peter until about three months later.

perhaps it was because he watched the life drain from george, had held him as he cried, but this loss was dearer felt. the two had been closer than even peter could define.

“wotcher edgar, rachel, peter,” a quiet voice says and he is roused from his ruminations. the crowd is slowly dispersing, the priest has gone. peter’s father and george’s father shake hands firmly. the three of them talk for a while, reminiscing together about when their boys were young. peter knows they’re trying to address him but he watches as a clear path to the casket opens.

he feels light of head as he slowly walks to the stand. he can feel people watching him and he can’t really blame them. he’s an outlier here, and he knows that george’s mother is not the only one who blames him and his father for the death of george.

blue eyes peer into the silky confines of the casket. george lays there motionless and lifeless. he’s been dressed in his sunday best. his cheeks are rosy and his expression is that of peace. peter thinks he looks too made up, too picture perfect. a wistful smile flicks on his lips at what george might say if peter told him so. the smile grows as he remembers what george said about his own sweaters, about how his muscles were too big for sleeves. “eejit,” he mumbles. tentative fingers reach in the casket and he loosens the tie that seems too tight for comfort. the silk fabric is cold.

he can remember sitting on the edge of the pier with george after isaac’s funeral and watching the ships far out on the bay. they sat next to each other, shoulders brushing, eyes front, bodies like statues that had washed up on the beach. they had shared some meaningless words before the ocean breeze willed them quiet. the air was briny and warm; it moved through the hawthorn trees and the tall grasses by the sea and drew mist up from the white - capping waves. peter’s storm rolled in too, but it was easier to speak through the whistling gusts than to say anything aloud. george seemed to be the only one who understood that.

peter lets out a rough, jerking sob as he comes to the jarring realisation that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do or how he’s going to live without him. the horrors of dunkirk keep him screaming at night, waking in a cold sweat, and turning the lights on to assure himself that the darkness on his body is just the night and not a layer of oil. he scrubs his arms until they turn red, thinking that he’s still covered in it. the screams of soldiers behind _moonstone_ burning alive haunt him. and no one else understands, no one else could, but george. and now he’s supposed to carry on living without the one person who grounded him, who could ever understand?

nearly blinded by the free flowing tears that shroud his vision, peter leans into the casket and presses a kiss to george’s lips, hoping that perhaps this is all a dream, another one of his nightmares. his lips are hard and cold and george smells like perfume and embalming fluid. he’s gone. george is gone. _he’s gone, mate._ george is gone. his tears run down george’s cheeks and the rouge runs to show grey beneath.

the world heaves a great sigh and the wind whistles through the tall cypresses and the willows lean to gape at his sorrow. peter’s hair blows and sticks to his tears. the wind reminds him to breathe, though, and he takes a shuddering gasp for what seems like the first time in the entire duration of the funeral. storm’s coming in, george says from the bay windows in peter’s house as they sit at the kitchen table and try to teach each other calculus. fat drops begin to fall from the sky, slowly, like the procession of soldier’s boots thumping across the docks.

a hand lays on his shoulder. it’s his father. “we ought to be going, pete.” his gaze tears away from his friend and his lips quiver again. he opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t manage it.

“ - george,” is all he can say, voice broken and foreign.

“i know,” says mr dawson. peter’s face sours and he chokes out a sob, falling into his father’s arms.

“he’s dead, dad.”

“i know.” the rain is beginning to fall freely now and peter can hear the sound of the casket lid creaking shut.

 

_is he going to be okay?_

 

 

_the boy?_


End file.
